


Harry nO-

by Duender



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Assassin!Tom Riddle, Bad Humor, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Humor, Lots of Murder, M/M, Mild Gore, Murder, Murderer!Tom Riddle, but its not horror i promise, i think, so it comes with the territory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25766593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duender/pseuds/Duender
Summary: Tom was just trying to get on with his day like a normal person.Well, a normal person who occasionally  went on a murder spree.If only his roommate would co-operate...
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 84
Kudos: 528
Collections: Harry Potter





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angie_g](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angie_g/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to [Aquamarine_Weasley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aquamarine_Weasley) for your help with this chapter!! This would have been non-existent if not for your answers to my completely random questions XD

People say that the best time for a crime is in the dead of the night, when nothing stirs and darkness covers your every move.

Tom calls them fools. 

Why would you want to commit a crime at a time when the people sleep, when the smallest of sounds are magnified? There’s no thrill when the only sounds around you are rustling leaves, when the pool of liquid by your feet looks black in the moonlight instead of a vibrant deep red, when the victim doesn’t fight back, knowing no one’s coming for them.

He much prefers to create his art in broad daylight, when he can see them clearly. See their eyes widen with fear, when they sense what is to come, listen to the audible gulp amidst the undecipherable chatter of the crowd on the busy roads of London, and watch with sharp eyes as the hopelessness registers, the person knowing they’re barely feet away from safety and yet will never make it to the end of the day alive.

Tom’s newest prey is a man in his thirties, with grey hair already peppering the black strands on his head. 

The alley they are standing in is just out of sight from the general public, and despite the spot being surrounded by tall buildings on three sides, only one tiny lone window faces the dreary shadowed area.

The man’s briefcase is on the ground, papers strewn around from when the bag fell down after unsuccessfully being used as a weapon to ward off Tom.

The twenty-three year old pulls out his favourite weapon, a knife which can be found in any convenience store. Impossible to trace back, easy to use, and, if one knows how to use it, creates minimal mess with maximum impact. Just his type of weapon.

Tom leisurely walks towards the man. He has no idea what his name is, he never bothers with names unless it's a hit request, and those only come by ever so often. Nevertheless, the man looks like a Jacob.

“Is your name Jacob?” he asks, honest curiosity colouring his voice. Jacob scrambles into a corner when he opens his mouth, as if it is the most frightening thing he’s heard. Tom feels pretty offended. Several people have told him that he has the voice of an angel. 

He sniffs. Jacob simply does not appreciate the finer things in life. No wonder he’s where he is.

“W-why are you doing this?”

Tom shrugs elegantly. He’s been asked this question several times, before, and the answer has never changed.

“Why not?”

No one hears the whimper as metal meets skin. No one notices as red rivulets spill onto the cobblestone path. No one notices the light in those murky brown eyes fade away.

It will be two days before Philip Mason is found in a back alley of London with his mouth gagged with his own tie, his throat slit open and a small sharp knife left at the crime scene. And there will be, like every other time, absolutely no leads.

  
  


___________________________

  
  


Tom Riddle opens the door to the two bedroom apartment with practiced ease, toeing off his shoes and heading straight for the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards for his favourite tea.

He knows that Harry wasn’t going to be home for the next three hours, so he settles into an armchair with a cup of tea and his favourite book.

His phone rings.

Thank heavens for custom ringtones. He picks it up without glancing at the caller id. “Yes, Harry?”

“Hey Tom, hypothetically,  if you committed a murder and are heading back home, how would you act casual?”

The man choked on his tea.

“W-what?”

“Cormac is being an utter jackass and I’m contemplating murder,” Harry says seriously.

Tom takes in a deep breath. “Why do you think  _ I  _ would know?” he asks indignantly.

“You seem like the kind of person who could walk around with a dead body in tow without being questioned.”

“Harry, I’m sure you can survive a few hours with McLaggen.”

“And if I can’t? Toooom,” Harry draws out his name. “Just tell me!”

“....get an alibi.”

“Ron will help with that, I’m sure!”

“Don’t forget to pick up some sugar from the store, we’re out.”

“Yeah, cos you drink your tea with a ton of it. I still don’t know how you don’t have diabetes. You can drink your coffee black but-”

“Harry, shut up.”

“Okay, so I just go to a convenience store and buy stuff and pretend everything’s normal? Wait, is this going to ensure I don’t get caught?!”

“Make sure you do it in a spot where no one can see you,” Tom answers briskly and cuts the call.

The green-eyed menace is always out to give him a heart attack.

  
  


___________________________

  
  


Harry stares down at his phone in disbelief.

“....I was asking him how to kill someone, not blow them,” he grumbles. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a big thank you to [Aqua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aquamarine_Weasley/pseuds/Aquamarine_Weasley) for giving me the required inspiration for this piece!!

“You are an incompetent fool,” Tom sneers down at the man, who simply grins, teeth bloody.

“Found your little establishment, didn’t I, Riddle?” Greyback snarls back.

Tom raises a sculpted eyebrow. “Did you a lot of good, that.” He has never been more grateful for Harry’s outgoing personality, his best friend won’t be returning home for another three hours, thinking the former is busy with his thesis.

The hulking man is currently tied to a wooden chair (he’d told Harry it was a good investment!) in the middle of the living room. Despite being twice his size, Tom had had no problems in knocking him down. 

He had even found enough rope in his closet to tie the beast twice.

…..is this why Harry thinks he’s kinky?

Tom shakes his head to rid himself of green eyes. 

“You won’t kill me in the middle of your living room,” Greyback states, leaning back with no worries. “I’ll yell for help.”

Tom scoffs. “You entered my house with a butcher’s knife in your hands, you yell for help and you’ll be jeopardising yourself.”

Greyback pauses, taking his words into consideration.

“...what are you going to do to me?”

Tom picks up the knife Greyback had brought with him with silk-covered hands, and offers him a wicked smile. “You brought me such a nice present, it would be a shame to not use it.”

Greyback rears back, shocked. 

“Did the big bad wolf forget just who was messing with?” Tom coos. “Didn’t expect this when you came in, did you?”

Greyback begins struggling in his binds. Tom’s glad the apartment walls are thick and virtually sound-proof.

“You won’t be able to get rid of my body, you won’t put yourself in so much risk,” he growls out, even as he tries to get his hands out of the knot. Pity. He should know by now that Tom never slips up. Ever.

“Someone told me that I could walk around with a dead body in tow and no one would question me,” Tom says uncaringly. “Don’t worry, I won’t test the theory today.”

He stalks towards his captive. “I really must thank you for choosing to wear black today.”

He’s already taken off the thick leather jacket Greyback was wearing. He eyes the black shirt and jeans, before deciding that it was unnecessary.

“Not many people realize,” he explains as he walks around the chair, “that your armpit,” he positions the knife under the man’s left armpit, “has an extremely vital artery.” He knicks a shallow cut through the shirt into the tan skin.

“Fortunately for you, I don’t want to kill you.” Greyback raises apprehensive eyes towards him. “Right now.” And there goes the hope.

Tom moves away, towards the medicine cabinet, rummaging through it before pulling out a bottle. He pops four pills into his hand and walks back, forcing Greyback’s mouth open.

“Chew,” he orders. 

At Greyback’s defiant look, he reaches for a glass of water.

“Chew, or I’ll force you to swallow.”

No response.

Tom holds the man’s nose closed, forcing him to open his mouth again, and pours in the water, watching dispassionately as the man sputters and chokes down the pills.

“Good boy,” Tom croons, patting his cheek lightly. He goes back for the knife. 

“Now, I didn’t finish my design.”

Tom traces the sides of the shirt with the knife, revealing skin as the cloth flutters around Greyback’s body. He decides to be quick, and makes tiny slashes that immediately turn red.

Not lethal, but the blood loss that would occur without medical attention would definitely kill him.

Once he’s satisfied with the reddening skin, he cuts off the ropes. Greyback doesn’t react. The pills have done their work, and the man is woozy and unaware of his surroundings.

“Up you go,” Tom cuts off the binds and quickly shoves his bulky arms into his jacket. The blood from the cuts has dampened Greyback’s clothes, but there’s no red anywhere else, so Tom isn’t too worried. 

He kicks the leftover pieces of rope under the couch, and then bustles his ‘companion’ towards the front door.

“Mr. Riddle.” The apartment’s security guard, Filch, greets him with a scowl, before eyeing the man next to him with trepidation. 

One of Tom’s arms is thrown over Greyback’s shoulder, and he tightens his hold. The knife concealed by the jacket digs into Greyback’s flesh, and the man lets out a groan, head hanging forward as the medication keeps him unaware.

“My friend has had too much to drink,” Tom sympathises. The guard raises a judgemental eyebrow, understandably. It’s only three in the afternoon.

“His girlfriend broke up with him,” Tom adds conspiratorially, and Greyback lets out another groan of pain, as if on cue.

Understanding dawning on him, Filch nods in sympathy.

Tom continues to walk towards his car, and maneuvers the weight into the backseat. 

Hopefully there would be no blood on the seat covers.

  
  


___________________________

  
  


“Filch told me that  _ you  _ had a friend over, and said friend got drunk,” Harry says the moment he walks into the living room, which looks exactly as he had left it in the morning.

Tom raises his eyes from his laptop screen. “Am I not allowed to have friends?”

Harry drops his bag on the floor, much to Tom’s dismay (“The books, Harry, you should respect them!”), and joins him on the deep grey sofa (much to Tom’s joy).

“Cut the bullshit, Tom, I know you better than anybody,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. And it was true. However, in moments like this, Tom sometimes wishes otherwise. Not really.

“I did have someone over.”

“And let them get drunk in your house?” Harry snorts, before bending over to take off his shoes.

He pauses.

Tom’s typing slows down. “What’s so interesting on the floor?”

Harry straightens up again, and Tom’s heart stops when he catches sight of the shredded rope hanging from his hand.

“Harry-”

“You bastard, what did you do to the poor man?” Harry’s laughing without a care, like he didn’t almost cause Tom another heart attack.

“I didn’t-”

“I  _ knew  _ you were kinky in bed,” Harry crows like he has discovered the biggest secret of mankind. Tom reaches towards him, swiping for the rope, but he’s too relieved to really be bothered.

Maybe that’s why he misses the flash of pain in Harry’s eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry zips up his jacket as the cool city air turns his cheeks pink. The sky is a brilliant purple, a sight he savours as he walks down the deserted road. There are no vehicles in sight, and the bridge he is nearing is one that is barely used. 

Harry’s strides slow down as he sees two figures in the distance - both black haired men, one significantly bulkier than the other. He assumes at first that it is a fight and is about to hurry his steps to help the slightly taller man when he notices something else. The muscular man’s postures screams defeat.

Emerald green eyes narrow.

The setting sun’s final rays shine upon the three men, one whose presence has gone unnoticed, and a glint catches Harry’s eyes. There is a knife to the bulkier man’s throat. 

He can only watch, detached from his surroundings, as the taller man plunges the knife into his captive’s chest, his position at the latter’s back ensuring no blood gets on him. Time slows down as one man is shoved off the bridge Harry was going to cross to get home to his best friend.

Harry watches with apathy as the murderer turns on his heel and walks to a familiar car that had not caught his notice until this very second. The gait, the posture, the hair, the  _ jaw -  _ the distant shutting of the car’s door breaks him out of his reverie. 

Harry realizes why he hadn’t been caught. He’s partially covered by a tree. 

He continues walking, though if he has suddenly decided to walk in the opposite direction, no one knows. Because he is the only witness for a murder committed by his best friend.

And somehow, as warm brown eyes that seem to hold such affection for him flicker through his mind, Harry can’t even bring himself to care.

  
  


___________________________

  
  


Tom can’t shake off the feeling that something is wrong. Harry has been extremely quiet ever since he got home an hour ago.

He knocked on the green-eyed boy’s bedroom door.

“Harry, dinner’s ready.”

“Coming,” a quiet voice so unlike his best friend floats through.

Tom runs an agitated hand through his hair, and takes a seat at the dining table. Today’s dinner is Indian, Harry’s absolute favourite.

The raven comes into the kitchen, takes a seat, and starts eating without a word.

Tom is shaken. He picks up a fork and puts a bit of chicken in his mouth, somehow unable to savour the rich flavour when the male across him is silent and unseeing, eating robotically.

After a few minutes of silence, he can’t take it anymore.

“Har-”

“Tom, you know you can tell me anything, right?”

...what? Green eyes look at him pleadingly.

“Anything at all. You know that, right Tom?”

Tom finally finds his voice. “...yes. Harry, what brought this on?”

“You  _ know  _ that, right?”

“Yes, Harry.” There’s a conviction in his voice that seems to finally soothe some inner demon of Harry’s. Tom hates not knowing.

“Harry-”

“Oh my god, you got Indian!” Finally. 

Tom can’t bring himself to ask again, when there’s finally colour in Harry’s cheeks again and he’s regained his appetite.

There’s always tomorrow.

  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

“Toooooooom.”

Tom opens his eyes blearily to see Harry leaning over him, green eyes wide and lips quivering in a pout.

“What the hell, Harry?” Tom doesn’t hesitate to shove his best friend off him and onto the floor before pulling his comforter over his head. A second later, a weight settles over him again.

“Tom, wake up!”

“It’s Sunday, let me sleep in!”

“But it’s the first Sunday of the month where we’re both free.”

Tom pauses in his motion to push Harry off him again - the raven was right. Last week, he’d been busy with his thesis and the week before that, Harry had had a meeting he couldn’t miss.

He lets out a resigned sigh. 

“Alright. But get off me.”

Victorious, Harry jumps to his feet and runs out of the room; a second later, Tom hears the clang of pots and kettles, letting him know that he would receive breakfast very soon. He drags himself into the bathroom. Harry is lucky he’s fond of him.

  
  


___________________________

  
  


“Tom?”

Said man hums as he sips on the coffee Harry’s prepared - the brew is perfect, exactly how he likes it.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Tom pauses, before setting his cup down and shutting his book. He turns sideways to face Harry, who’s leaning against the kitchen countertop. Those green eyes seem to drill holes into him, stare into his very being.

“What brought this on?”

“You can tell me absolutely anything, and I’ll never, ever, judge you for it,” Harry says resolutely. 

Tom nods slowly, eyebrows pinching in a frown as confusion mars his face.

“I know that…”

“Anything at all.”

“Harry, I came out as gay years ago.”

  
  


___________________________

  
  


Harry curls into Tom’s side, the position as natural as it had been years ago at the orphanage. Except this time, they weren’t staring out of a window - they were watching a movie. A movie Harry had selected for very specific reasons. He hopes his plan will work; he spent ages looking for a movie that would fit his requirements.

“Well, the murderer wasn’t smart at all,” he comments as they near the end of the movie.

“Why do you say so?”

“Who the hell commits murder in broad daylight?! He could have been easily seen!”

“But he wasn’t - the place was deserted,” Tom soothes.

Harry groans inwardly. His best friend might be smart, but where it counted, he’s a thick-headed dumbass.

“But he  _ could  _ have been caught.”

Tom shrugs. “Fair enough. But what’s life without a little risk?”

“A risk that means him spending the rest of his life in prison?”

_ Why wasn’t Tom understanding?! _

“No need to get so worked up over it, Harry,” Tom croons, running a hand through his hair in an effort to calm him. “It’s just a movie.”

Harry feels like slamming his head into the TV.

  
  


___________________________

  
  


“Sorry, Mione, Tom and I are going out for dinner,” Harry spoke into the phone while simultaneously trying to fit his arms into his jacket.

“Oooh, as a date?” Hermione teases.

“Mione, no! Besides, I doubt he even thinks about me that way,” Harry says, the slightest bit of longing lacing his voice.

“Who thinks of you in what way?” 

Harry drops his phone and whirls around to see Tom standing in the doorway of his room.

“How much did you hear?” Harry asks, heart racing.

“Someone thinks of you in some way,” Tom replies with a slight frown. He hates not knowing things.

“Oh, right,” Harry scoops up his phone. “I’ll call you later, Mione, Tom and I are heading out now. Bye!”

“Are you not going to tell me what you were talking about?” Tom would deny it but he is whining as he followed Harry to the door.

“Nope. It’s called privacy, Tom.”

Harry bites back a grin as he heard his best friend follow him while grumbling under his breath like a disgruntled kitten.

Knife wielding murderer or not, Tom Riddle is adorable.

  
  


___________________________

  
  
  


Like every other time they go out to dinner, they are offered a private booth and a couples’ discount; and like every other time, they don’t refuse either - a discount was a discount!

Tom takes the seat across from Harry, and sets his gaze on the shorter man. He still remembers yesterday’s incident.

“Harry, won’t you tell me what was wrong yesterday?”

Harry slowly lifts his eyes from the menu he is perusing. “...yesterday?”

“Yes, Harry. Don’t play dumb.”

“I am not! And it was nothing, I just wanted you to know that I will always be your best friend.”

Tom holds in a sigh. When Harry’s stubborn side showed, he could get nothing from the man. “But it was just so sudden-”

“Yeah, well, I just thought you had forgotten.”

Tom stares. “You think I will forget you are my best friend?” he asks incredulously.

Harry shifts under the intense gaze, and shrugs. “I just thought it was important for you to know, okay? Now drop it!”

Tom clenches the silverware in his hands. Harr wants him to tell him something - the thing is, Tom has no clue what that something is. 

He hopes Harry gets out of his funk soon. He doesn’t like seeing the happy sparkles in those green eyes disappear.


	5. Chapter 5

Tom lays in bed, arms by his side as he stares up at the dark ceiling. Harry’s words continue to echo through his mind.

_ You can tell me anything. _

_ I’m your best friend. _

_ I’ll be by your side forever. _

He throws the comforter off himself and sits on the edge of the bed. There is no way he was going to be able to sleep. 

“What on earth did that infuriating menace mean by that?!” Tom runs a hand down his face. He isn’t sure about what had brought upon Harry’s unneeded assurances, but he did have  _ one  _ secret he hasn’t told him. One he is sure Harry had no clue about; his words, however, make Tom think, and he comes to the conclusion that any secret between them is not good.   
  


He reached for his phone, and pulled up a search page.

‘How to tell your best friend you don’t like his cookies.’

  
  


___________________________

  
  


Harry quickly glances up from his computer; his supervisor is at the far end of the room, helping out another of his students. He pulls out his phone for the umpteeth time; no new messages.

He sighs. He isn’t sure about what he expected - maybe a text saying  _ Harry, we need to talk?  _ Though, to be fair, that sounds more like something that would be sent to a partner in a relationship…. Something they are definitely not.

He sighs.

Ron looks up from his own screen and glances at him. “What’s the matter, mate?” he asks in a hushed whisper, though there is no one in hearing distance who will care.

“Just expecting a text.”

“Ooooh, from Tom?” the redhead asks teasingly.

“No! And Hermione needs to keep her mouth shut!”

“Don’t blame her, it was fairly obvious a long time ago.”

Harry glances to his right. If  _ Ron  _ thought it was obvious….

“Back to work, you two,” a pleasant voice sounded from behind them. “You need to get at least part of that program done by today.” Albus Dumbledore looks down at them from above his half-moon spectacles and the two young men hurriedly apologize before getting back to work.

  
  


___________________________

  
  


Harry reaches home before Tom, and seizes the opportunity to bake some butter cookies. The older male has always devoured them, and he is more than happy to make him more.

He is bustling about the kitchen cleaning up the mess he’s created while the his cookies are in the oven, when the front door of the house opens.

“I’m home,” Tom calls down the hallway, and Harry can’t hold in the pleased grin. It’s just so  _ domestic.  _

“In the kitchen,” he calls back, but really, it is rather impossible to miss, considering the entire apartment smells like butter and sugar. He takes in a deep breath; it’s his favourite smell in the world…. After Tom. But really, why did he apply for a diploma? He should have gotten a job at a bakery. 

Though, it might be partly because he had made the deal with Ron years ago, and partly because Tom’s puppy eyes and arguments are incredibly convincing. 

“Are you making cookies?” Tom asks from the doorway, and there is something hesitant in his voice. 

Harry turns around with a cheerful smile. “Yes!”

“Harry, there’s something I need to tell you,” Tom says slowly as he pulls out a chair and sits on it gingerly, as if it is going to explode.

Harry’s heart skips a beat. This is it. He quickly wipes his flour-white hands on a towel and takes the seat across from Tom. “Yes?” he asks casually, but his palms are already sweating.

  
  


“Harry, I don’t like you cookies.”

  
  


“WHAT?”

Tom quickly puts his hands up in surrender. “They’re just too soft and sweet! I’m a dark chocolate kind of person, not white sugary milk chocolate and butter cookies!”

Harry throws his hands up. “Whatever. Get out of the kitchen!” When Tom hesitates, he points one menacing finger at him. “OUT!”

Harry slumps down into his chair once Tom leaves with his loud aura, head in his hands. He honestly couldn’t care less about Tom liking his food. But the idiot obviously can not understand what  _ important  _ secrets that need to be talked about are.

  
  


___________________________

  
  


Tom hurries into his room and shuts the door behind him. He hadn’t expected Harry to blow up! 

_ Does he really like making me cookies that much?  _ He wonders as he strips and heads to the shower to wash off a day worth of grime and sweat.

He stands for a long time under the jet of hot water, pondering upon his life choices. 

He makes a decision.

Tom Riddle will eat those cookies if they kill him.


	6. Chapter 6

Tom looks up from his laptop to glance around the quiet cozy cafe. Slughorn rarely asks his mentees to come in, something he takes full advantage of; the flat, however, seems much colder and emptier when Harry’s presence doesn’t fill it - he tries to step out of their home whenever possible, if Harry’s not there.

The tingling at his nape increases in intensity. Shutting down his laptop and quickly sliding it into his back, he stands and walks out of the cafe after bidding the sweet old lady behind the counter goodbye. 

His instincts are blaring.

Tom breaks into a jog, ducking into the alley behind the cafe before quickly rummaging through his backpack. He pulls out a snake mask that can cover his entire head. He isn’t about to risk his identity because of an unplanned mission. Quickly snapping on a pair of surgeon gloves that he always has with him, he slips a knife under his sleeve. Thank god for shirts. 

Sneaking further into the alley, he spots the back door of the cafe; with practiced ease, he slides his backpack into a spot just behind the door. In the darkness of his surroundings, it isn’t visible.

Tom nods, satisfied, before nimble feet make their way towards another spot. His instincts have never led him astray, so he remains in the shadows as he picks his way down the alley and continues on, further away from the bustling busy road and into a dark corner.

His eyes narrow as he spots a looming shadow over a much smaller one - a little boy is cornered. 

“Hey!” 

The looming shadow turns around to stare at him. It is a big man, with a purple face and angry eyes. Tom’s eyes flicker to the child.

“Get out of here, kid,” he says, and the boy wastes no time in using the big man’s distraction to dash around him and out of the alley. 

He is going to return soon, probably with an adult, mostly with a policeman. 

Tom decides to make it quick, not bothering with his usual monologue. He’s not going to get caught. Not today, not ever.

He dashes forward, knife ready in hand. Before the bigger man can begin yelling at him for doing what he’s doing, he’s in that purple face, knife digging into his neck. Blood spurts out, and Tom nimbly steps back, neatly avoiding the blood fountain as the man chokes on his blood. A quick rip later, a snake and skull is engraved on the dying man’s chest as he desperately tries to call for help. He barely makes a gurgle.

Tom nods sharply - the man wasn’t going to walk out alive. After quickly looking around to ensure he wasn’t leaving anything discriminating around, he slips out of the alleyway like a black cat, back to where he left his bag. Quickly stripping off the gloves, he puts them into a thick paper bag - he’ll burn them when he gets home. His mask is spotless, but he puts it into a second paper bag anyways. He’ll clean that once he gets home.

Shouldering his backpack, he adjusts the straps. And then he’s back in the daylight of London.

It’s time to go home.

  
  


___________________________

  
  


Harry sits in his favourite armchair, curled up with a book in hand. He’s home before Tom, and grateful for the silence. It lets him collect his thoughts.

Like the fact that Tom-

A key turns in a lock, and the front door of the apartment opens.

Harry glances up. “Hey,” he says softly. He’s a little regretful about yelling at the man for no reason, and if the wariness in Tom’s eyes are anything to go by, the other seems to be bracing himself for another round of it.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” Harry plows forward, words spilling from his mouth. “I was just stressed and a little mad and-”

Tom sets his backpack on the couch and turns back to him. A patch of red, previously hidden by the bag strap, is now visible. Very clearly.

Harry snaps his mouth shut.

“Harry, it’s okay….” Tom trails off when he realizes Harry is frozen in his seat. “Harry?”

“You’ve got blood on your shirt, did you know?” Harry points out casually. “Right there,” he gestures to his own shoulder as an example.

Tom’s heart stops and he glances down. There, a patch of dark red. How could he have been so stupid?! He feels like pulling his hair out. Anyone could have seen; it was pure luck that his bag covered it. 

Really, it is Harry’s fault! The emerald-eyed man had plagued his thoughts the entire day, he was so distracting!

Harry watches Tom undergo a crisis, equal parts amused and frustrated. Really, it’s getting hilarious, seeing the usually stoic and collected man flail around for excuses.

  
  


“Tom?”

Tom blinks, the mess of thoughts disappearing at the sound of Harry’s voice.

“Hmm?”

“There’s blood on your shirt.” Really, Harry should switch to drama. “Oh my god, are you injured?!”

“Oh, no! No, I'm alright. I was, umm, helping this kid who scraped his elbow. I had to carry him for a bit, so…”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, so the blood seemed to have gotten onto my shirt…” Harry hid the lower half of his face with his book. Tom Riddle, looking as lost as a baby turtle.

“Mhm. Better wash your shirt before it stains. It’s one of your nicest ones.”

“Yes, I’ll just-”

Harry barely keeps himself from laughing out loud as Tom hurries down the hallway, eager to disappear from the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Send me asks/requests on [Tumblr!](https://duender-writes.tumblr.com/)


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